One more time
by hopper18
Summary: Batman gets a chance to live his life again, one without tragedy. But can he truly settle in this new reality?
1. Chapter 1

**I don't own Batman**

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><p>There was a breach of security in the cave.<p>

The Dark Knight swerved his car around the second he heard the alarm and pressed his foot down hard against the gas pedal, driving full speed back to his secret base. Stomach knotting with worry, he called into the communicator.

"Alfred, are you there?"

Cursing when all he received was static, he tried again.

"Alfred, answer me".

Silence

"Damnit! Alfred! Robin! SOMEONE ANSWERS ME!"

No one seemed to have heard his pleas. Abandoning the vain attempts at communicating since it was clear that nobody was available at the moment, Batman turned his attention back to the road, wishing fervently for the power to teleport. He tried to calm himself down, pulling up a logical explanation for the lack of response. The computer system of the cave must have been damaged somehow when Tim was subduing the intruder, and that was why they couldn't reply. That must be it. He clung onto that single thought until the manor was within sight, despite the fact that all of his internal danger alert signal was going off at simultaneously. Batman drove like a mad man into the hidden passage, finally catching the sight of the cave.

His heart stopped.

The whole of his vision was drowned by the color red from the sea of flame. He jumped out of his car only to be assaulted immediately by the sting of smoke and the smell of burnt plastic. The sound of small explosions was still going off in the direction of his main computer. He staggered for several seconds, pulling his thought together before rushing into the carnage.

"ALFRED! TIM! WHERE ARE YOU?"

Smoke attacked his nose and throat, causing him to cough. He glanced around. The place bore no resemblance to the cave he left from just about two hours ago. Everything was totally wrecked. This level of destruction, it must have been explosives. There was still no sight of his butler and protégé anywhere. He had to find them! Those two was still down here the last he checked.

Batman never lost control. However, right now there was no way he could honestly say that anything in his head at the moment was rational as he dug his way through the rubble. Had he been his usual self, he would have noticed that there was something, something that didn't belong there attached to what was left of his medical table. Some sort of device that, at that moment, was still beeping faintly.

"TIM! TIM! ALFRED!" Batman shouted at the top of his voice in both desperation and panic. He still hadn't found a single living being here other than himself.

BOOM! CRASH!

He turned his head upward, watching as the most recent explosion sent the ceiling collapsing over his head. He had to get out! But he can't! Tim and Alfred would be buried alive.

The device in the corner began to glow alight, still unbeknownst to the Dark Knight. By the time he realized it, the whole cave had been enveloped in white. Then his vision went black.

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><p><strong>Should I continue this? There probably won't be any villain. I'm not so good with them.<strong>


	2. Chapter 2

His vision was filled with red. Everything around him was burning. His ears could hear nothing besides the crackling of fire and electricity. He had to go. He had to get out of this place. But Alfred and Tim were still down here. He had to find them!

His legs were moving as if they had a mind of their own. Why were they taking him in that direction? There were nothing there, not anymore. He tried to pull back, but it was as if he was being dragged by someone else. He looked over his shoulder. There was nothing but fire around him, forward or behind, but back there were where Alfred and Tim were, and he was walking away from them. Then he realized he had both his arms held out on either side of him, his hands gripping something. Someone was holding his hands. But who? He saw no one but himself standing in this ruin of a cave. Why wasn't his body functioning the way he wanted? He had to stop and put out the fire, he had to find his allies, then catch the intruder. This was an emergency and he had many things to do. He dug his feet into the ground and put his whole strength into fighting that mysterious force that was still pulling him against his will. To his surprise, he did manage to halt. It was then that he saw it. An object seemed to suddenly appear out of thin air, looking so out of place against the wall of fire that he was facing. Then came the hand that was gripping it. The body. The face. He watched as a man stepped out, holding that sinister thing he recognized so well: a gun.

His mind switched to auto-pilot and he charged forward. The man fired. The bullet missed and bounced off the ground harmlessly. This routine had been repeated over and over so many time that his body just automatically do its job for him. Kicking the man's gun out of his hand. Pushing his target down onto the ground. He wasn't exactly aware why, but instead of just knocking the criminal out with one blow like he used to, he brought his fist up and punched the stranger over and over with all of his hatred. Around him, fire was still burning and he heard nothing of the new voices that were calling his name.

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><p>Thomas Wayne and Martha Wayne were leading their son back to the car after exiting the theatre. They were having a good time. Martha smiled at her son spirited chatter as he held his imaginary sword and swung it around, pretending to be his hero. Thomas made his way to an alley, his family closely following him, which he knew would be a shorter road to their ride. Alfred was waiting for them back at the manor. The three was walking in a normal pace when, all of a sudden, the boy stopped moving.<p>

"Bruce, what's wrong? Are you tired?" asked Martha.

A little concerned that they received no answer, the couple took their son's hand and the eight-year-old continued to walk, but his face was blank and he was so quiet, unlike the chatty little boy ten seconds ago. A few step later, the child started to pull away and tried to wrench his hands from his parents'.

"Bruce, what the matter?" inquired a now very worried Thomas.

His son didn't seem inclined to talk, but there was no time for an answer anyway because at that moment, a man ran into the alley, wielding what was unmistakably a gun.

"Give me all your money and jewelry, now!" the mugger shouted.

The couple had stopped dead. To encounter this kind of event when they were only a few meters away from safety. Thomas brought his arms up in surrender, but before he could do anything further, something happened that made his heart skipped several beats.

His son, whom he had purposefully covered with his body, was running toward the thug. He heard Martha screamed in terror as the gun was directed right at his child and shot. The bullet, however, didn't met its mark and Bruce just kept running. What happened next was something neither he nor his wife could believe. He watched in stunned silence as his son easily disarmed the man and forced him onto the ground. The next thing he knew, Bruce was sitting on the thug, punching him over and over without showing any signs of stopping.

"BRUCE!"

Suddenly unfrozen, Thomas and Martha ran forward, Thomas wrapped his arms around his son waist and pulling him away from the unconscious man. The little boy went limp, but as Thomas put him on the ground and peered at his face, he saw in his son's eyes something he could never forget: a look of pure anger and hopelessness.


	3. Chapter 3

"Bruce, what's wrong? Talk to me!"

Thomas must have repeated that sentence about a hundred times by now, and his son still had yet to elicit a single word. He looked up to meet the full-of-panic gaze that belonged to his wife, who was hugging her boy and rubbing his back gently in the same attempt to coax a reaction out of him. Neither of the parents had had any success.

The couple was still trying to wrap their minds around what they had just witnessed. Their precious little boy had somehow single-handedly taken down an armed man without receiving so much as a scratch. Even more disturbing was the one-sided beat down that followed (which resulted in the out-cold thug that was lying a few feet from them, all but forgotten). And in that moment, Thomas felt an emotion that he never thought he would feel when he saw his son: fear. When he met his son's eyes, what he perceived there wasn't the cheerful eight-year-old he'd always knew, but some kind of vengeful demon. And to his shame, he had unconsciously backed away. When he had managed to gather himself, Bruce was still standing where he'd left him, still, almost lifeless, staring at nothing. It was as if the boy had become a statue, and no amount of talking or shaking had managed to wake him out of his stupor. His hand unconsciously found his wife's and he received a comforting squeeze, though he could also feel those fingers shaking because Martha was scared, and he was scared, scared because there was something seriously wrong with their son and neither of them knew how to fix him.

They was quite startled at the sound of police siren. That was right, Martha called the police. Thomas had completely forgotten about it. The police car skidded to a halt outside the alley, its headlight illuminated the dark corner. Thomas stood up, his hand placed firmly on Martha's shoulder who was still holding Bruce tightly, and faced the approaching police officers. He gave them a quick account of what had happened, except that he didn't tell them the truth about who knocked out the mugger. They bought his version of event, describing how he himself had disarmed the thug to protect his wife and child. No one suspected anything, because frankly, the idea that Bruce could even do something like that was laughable. Even now, his head was still reeling just thinking about it. The officers arrested the thug and after a few words with them, Thomas persuaded them to let him drive his family home. Picking up his son, who didn't seem to even notice the contact, Thomas and Martha made their ways to their car.

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><p>The ride back home was uncomfortably silence. Thomas tried to concentrate on the road, while Martha sat Bruce in her lap and rocking him gently back and forth. The doctor thought of today, of how happy they had been when they went to see the movie. How had thing go downhill so fast?<p>

"Thomas!"

His wife's sudden cry nearly made him steer the car off the road. As it was, he stepped on the brake to stop the ride and turned around.

"He's shaking. And I think he's mumbling something." Martha said worriedly.

Bruce was indeed shaking as if he was cold. And from the driver seat, Thomas could see his lips moving. Turning off the engine, Thomas tried to make out what his son was saying.

"Tim…Alfred…"

Again and again the boy repeated those words like some kind of mantra. Thomas exchanged a look with his wife.

"It looks like he's asking for Alfred." said Martha.

"But who is this Tim?" asked Thomas.

His wife shook her head.

"I don't know. None of his friend has a name like that."

Thomas restarted the car.

"I don't like this. Let's take him home first. I'll call some of my friends to have a look at him."

Martha nodded. That was the only thing the two of them could do for now.

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><p>Alfred came out to open the gate for them like usual.<p>

"Welcome home, sir." the butler greeted Thomas pleasantly, unaware of what happened during the trip.

What happened next, none of them saw coming. As Martha came out of the car with Bruce, the boy caught sight of Alfred and instantly came to life. The next thing they knew, the bewildered butler had an armful of a sobbing eight-year-old crying into his shoulder.

"You're still alive!" the boy exclaimed through uncontrollable hiccups. Alfred had his arms wrapped around his young master while his face turned towards his employers with questioning eyes, his expression filled with confusion. What met him were the equally shocked features of the couple.

"You're here, that means Tim's safe, right?" the boy's voice sounded so desperate, so hopeful that even though Alfred had no idea who he was talking about, the butler still answered to soothe him.

"Of course, Master Bruce. Everyone is okay."

He could feel the boy's body sagged in relief.

"Then it was just a nightmare. Just another nightmare." Alfred heard him mumbled to himself. The butler looked at the parents, who was watching in stunned silence, searching for some answers. Unfortunately, it looked like no one who was present could offer any.

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><p><strong>Bruce is a bit emotional in this because he is still out of it and his mind is that of an eight year old.<strong>


	4. Chapter 4

Bruce winced slightly as he emerged from the depth of his slumber. His head was killing him. He remained still, his eyes still closed. There was just something wrong with this-with him being in bed, those he couldn't quite place what exactly it was that was out of place. And…

Later, he would chalk it up to exhaustion. Now, though, he was truly, honest-to-god startled out of his senses when his Batman skills failed to alert him immediately to the presence of another person in the room who was sitting right next to him. His eyes flew open, his instincts kicked in as he jumped off the bed and turning to face the stranger with a defensive stance.

The next moment would be forever burned into his mind, just as how his parents' death had been. His heart stopped in a single instant as he took in the features of the face that greeted him, then sped up uncontrollably as recognition set in. He backed away.

"Bruce!"

What was this exactly? A hallucination? He couldn't for the life of him remember if he had come across any kind of toxin last night. What was he doing last night anyways? He could not recall.

"Bruce!" the apparition repeated, standing up from the chair where it had been settled in, one hand reaching for him in a worried manner. Every little motion matched the images in his memory so perfectly that it hurt. But there was just no way he was staring at the face of his mother.

If this was a dream or a hallucination, then it was too cruel.

Trying to swallow the lump in his suddenly very dry throat, he broke the eye contact with his "mother" and scanned the room he was in. It was his room right down to the last details. One small problem though-those details were about twenty-year-old out-of-date. Zorro and the Gray Ghost' movie posters covered the wall, the shelves filled with action figures stashed among the books and a solitary cowboy hat hung from the hanger. He knew for a fact that those things weren't there the last time he checked, and unless Alfred had been redecorating, they shouldn't be here now either.

He turned back to the woman in front of him. She gathered him into her arms. He flinched, but didn't retaliate. His face was pressed against her body. She smelled exactly the same as his mother too.

"Bruce, please, talk to me. What's wrong? Are you hurt somewhere?" she asked, her voice almost pleading. Bruce closed his eyes. This was just too much. Was this real? It certainly felt real. Either way, until he found out what was happening, he would have to play along. He had long since learned that in a scenario where nothing made sense, it was best that he became a part of it. The fighting was best left to when he had gathered enough knowledge.

Those were the lines of logic that were running through his head at that moment. Those were the reasons his mind came up with to explain why he was leaning into her touch. But another part of him, the one that was forever frozen to a stop since that shooting was the actual root of his urge to just hug his mother and never let go.

This was just too much.

He pushed his hand against Martha's warm and too real body and pulled back. Looking up at her face, he realized that she was still waiting for a reply.

"I…I just had a nightmare." Yeah, just a never-ending one that lasted more than twenty years or so.

Martha frowned. Bruce could feel the tension in her movement.

"Bruce…Do you remember what happened last night?" she inquired, the hesitation clear in her voice.

Last night. Last night… He wracked his brain for an answer. What was he doing last night? What?

He reeled back as the memories surfaced. The cave. The explosions. The fire. The destruction. He swallowed, trying to think past the fear that suddenly bubbled in his stomach. That was right. The last thing he remembered was trying to find his allies in the rubbles. Was they alive? If anything happened to them…

He quickly reigned in all his emotion. If he wanted to logic his way out of this, he had to stay calm. Information, he need information, badly.

"What happened last night?" Bruce enquired his "mother", trying not to seem suspicious.

"Do you remember the bad man?" Martha asked in a soft voice.

Bad man? Bruce recalled that phrase as the way his mother used to address criminals in front of him, which encompassed everything from thieves to murderers. Still, until the night when his parents were taken from him, little Bruce Wayne had never had to interact with those people.

As his mind was scanning those data, a thought struck him with the force of lightning. It couldn't be…

"Mom, what's the date?" Bruce couldn't quite hide the tremble out of his voice. Martha looked taken aback, but answered anyways.

His suspicion was confirmed. He looked down at himself for the first time since he woke up. The thin, unmarked body of an eight-year-old stared back at him. He knew before that he had shrunk, he just didn't know by how much.

"We got mugged, didn't we?"

It wasn't really a question, and the way the arms holding him tighten their grip just a little bit was answer enough. Bruce's hands clenched into fists. If this was real. If somehow, this was really happening…

"Is dad here?" It was one of those questions that he dreaded the answer, but he had to ask.

"He is talking to the police. Do you want to see him?"

Alive then. Bruce wanted to see him, but he had to collect all the pieces of the puzzle first.

"What happened to that bad man last night?"

He saw on her face at once that she didn't want to reply to that. What he was surprised at was the fleeting flicker of fear in her eyes.

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><p><strong>I don't know where I'm going with this exactly.<strong>


	5. Chapter 5

Bruce sat quietly on the living room sofa, waiting for his father to come home, all the while trying to wrap his mind around the fact that he once again had a father to wait for at all. His mother, another impossibility in this strange new reality, hadn't left his side for one second since he woke up. The mere sight of her stirred up something in him, some emotions that wasn't quite his own. He wanted to see Alfred-the only constant figure in this crazy world of his so he could salvage some sense of normalcy. The Batman part of him was still collecting data and analyzing them, but the other part seemed to be close to panicking, and panicking wasn't just something he would allow himself to feel easily, Batman or Bruce Wayne. He had traveled through time before (did he mention how much he hate time-travel?) and being catapulted to another dimension wasn't exactly anything new, either (he blamed Superman for that one) so this shouldn't have affected him like this. The thought of seeing his parents again had always brought him longing, wistfulness along with an excruciating pain as the memory of their death was dredged up anew, so of course meeting them alive for real was bound to have a massive impact on him. However, his sense of self-aware kept sending him that something-is-seriously-not-right alert. But suddenly, he just didn't want to think anymore. He just wanted his dad to come home quick so he could have a hug and he wanted to go to the kitchen so Alfred would give him something to eat and he could go out and play.

If the Dark Knight would only listen to his own thought at that moment, he would discover what his problem was. As it was though, he just continued to sit there until he heard Alfred opening the door, announcing his father's appearance. Whatever this was, it was imperative that he acted normal.

Thomas Wayne walked into the house to find his son running up to him. He scooped the eight-year-old into his arms and everything seemed almost normal again. Well, almost. He saw Martha standing there, saw her eyes and saw her need to talk, so he gently put Bruce down and sent him to his room. His son nodded quietly and obeyed without a word, which again spelled wrong because Bruce just didn't stop talking. His son loved to talk and he babbled about everything to them. To see him looking despondent just didn't sit right with him.

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><p>"You didn't see him this morning, Thomas." Martha recounted with her face in her hands "He looked at me like I was going to attack him or something. He told me he had a nightmare, but I know he was lying. And he hadn't said a word since. Can you imagine Bruce, not talking?"<p>

At this she turned to her husband and buried her face in his shoulder.

"I'm just so worried, Thomas. I don't know what wrong with him. He was fine yesterday, but now he acted like someone completely different, ever since he beat up that… that…"

Martha gathered herself and sat up straight, having remembered something very important that she had to ask.

"What happened to that mugger?"

Thomas sighed.

"Joe Chill. He's just a drunk. My guess is he wanted more money for alcohol, but the police hasn't been able to question him yet, he's still unconscious in the hospital." Martha gasped "He took quite a beating. Most of the hits landed on his upper body and he has a few broken bones."

Thomas turned away. He couldn't bring himself to elaborate that Chill's face suffered the heaviest damage because Bruce had sat on the mugger's chest when he beat him into submission, couldn't say that the thug's appearance wasn't looking anywhere remotely human right now because it was all swollen up, and all those injuries was inflicted with the fists of their son. But still, he knew that his wife knew and that she was thinking the same thing and that they were both remembering last night when Bruce kicked that gun right out of Chill's hand and then suddenly their sweet little boy wasn't there anymore, but something else.

"Does he remember?" asked Thomas.

"He knows we went to see a movie last night and that we was mugged. But I don't think he remember what he did." Martha looked at her husband "I just can't believe this, Thomas. Bruce doesn't know how to fight. He's never even hit anybody. But I saw it with my own eyes and… and…I just don't know anymore. What are we going to do?"

"I…I have some friends. I can see if one of them can examine him if he has any problem psychologically." Thomas suggested.

"A psychiatrist?"

Thomas nodded.

"It will be only like a friendly chat, to see if he really doesn't remember anything and if he needed help. We'll do what we can for him Martha."

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><p>Upstairs, the subject of their discussion was at his table, concentrating on some drawings on his textbook. On the pages were the images of what would be known as Batman-the caped crusader, Robin-the Boy Wonder and various other pictures of the future Nightwing, Superman… and villains such as the Riddler, Penguin, the Joker…but right now they looked like fancy Halloween costumes. He would add highly detailed profiles to them later, but right now he just stared at those faces, wondering if the future where they were meant to be even existed anymore or if he wanted it to exist.<p> 


End file.
